


Alis Aquilae

by AstralFire



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, M/M, Novices Gonna Novice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire/pseuds/AstralFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Ezio and his eaglet novices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Who is Determined

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for ye olde kink meme.

It is whispered among them that Ezio Auditore is a god, or perhaps the descendant of a god. The man never seems to get sick, never seems to ache from age (that they can see or hear), and he never seems to be hurt long from any wounds. He has a gift, everyone says, that allows him to see an enemy, a target, an ally. He swims with ease beneath heavy layers, rebuilds all of Rome with an endless supply of florins. "A god," every recruit whispers to each other over pieces of hard bread and soup, or over the clash of steel, the thwang of a bow. It's a hard image to keep up, but Ezio manages somehow.

"A god," Vittorio says, bobbing up and down while reclined on Enu's back. "Everyone is saying it: _Mentore_ is a god."

Enu laughs breathlessly under the strain of doing push-ups with the added weight. His dark skin, baked by the generation and sun of Africa, is taunt and carved with muscle. He keeps his marksman arms strong by coercing one of the youngest to sit on him while he exercises. A boy perches on his back now, no more than nineteen and rarely enlisted in this profession by Ezio because the babe still has the slight baby's curl to his short hair, the roundness of youth to his jaws.

Vittorio doesn't seem to mind, as it is a way to skip out on the daily routine of being a Tiber "wife": sewing, cooking, washing uniforms, gathering weapons, checking coops. _Moglie_ they call him teasingly, along with one other boy about his age. "They say if you stab him, he won't die," continues Vittorio, perhaps thinking about the similar rumors of La Volpe.

"And do you believe that?" asks Enu through a grunt on an upward push.

"Nothing is true," says a sudden voice, a strong and confident one that pierces the quiet of the room.

Enu freezes half-way in his swoop toward the ground, and Vittorio jerks upright. Ezio is like a ghost still, haunting room after room with an unnatural silence that leaves even the most skilled Master Assassins jumping in their skin. He likes it that way, likes to keep them all on their toes. None of the apprentices can ever seem to understand how he does it in all those layers. Their faces are always priceless. It's like a miracle to them, but they witness it with their own eyes, and so it is real. They have become believers in the proficiency of a trained Assassin.

Vittorio looks both surprised and astounded at Ezio's entrance, and Enu relaxes down against the floor slowly.

" _Mentore_!" chirps Vittorio, rolling himself off Enu and up to his feet. "Are you dismissing the rumors about yourself?"

"If you can find truth in these rumors," Ezio says, placing a heavy hand on Vittorio's head, "then you may believe them." Behind him, three of the recruits he had gathered earlier file into the room.

Rocco is first (as always, Ezio thinks), and he throws a few pretend punches at Vittorio's ribs which make his white robes sway near his knees. Vittorio hunches in reflex and grabs his stomach, but is too slow to make any motions of defending or moving. Rocco has ample opportunity to fake an upper-cut just under Vittorio's chin. Ezio can make out the appropriate reactions to the attack long before they are executed, like a slow blur in time. Rocco grins widely through his short beard at his success, all teeth. "Slacking off, rookie?" he asks, and then he laughs when Vittorio puffs up like an offended bird.

Severino, Ezio senses, doesn't seem half as amused as Valeria does about the teasing. There are serious lines all over his face, a bad pinch of his sharp brows. His eyes, as he sternly watches the other five, are so black that no emotion escapes them, and he looks placidly grim. He is a shady apparition lingering on the edge of their gathering, very different from the laid-back cousin standing beside him, very different from the baby-faced Vittorio and ruggedly handsome faces of Rocco and Enu. Before, Ezio thought maybe it was a bad thing to have such a wraith among his men, but now he knows better. The somber attitude keeps many of the rowdy in line. Namely Rocco.

Valeria, on the other hand, is forever smiling, with deep cupid's bow and feminine eyes. She is married, but even then, Ezio can admit to himself that she is a beautiful woman. Strong and beautiful, like the women of Italy should be.

"Marco needs some help," Ezio says to Vittorio finally. He then turns his amber eyes to Enu. "And I need your help," he adds, motioning to the other three. "Martucci, Sabelli, and I are teaching the others the crossbow. We could use the expertise of a skilled marksman."

Enu nods respectively, smile on his lips. "Of course, _Mentore_."

Ezio, rounding the four Assassins together with a hand, moves to leave, but Vittorio is right on their heels. " _Mentore!_ " he calls, raising an arm before letting it fall back to his side. Simultaneously, Ezio and the others halt and glance back. "I want to learn, too," Vittorio says quickly.

Rocco laughs, and wiggles his fingers toward the bottom of his own face. "Find _Mentore_ when you have some fuzz on your chin, boy," he says.

Vittorio cuts Rocco a playful glare, and Ezio can't help but to smile. He is vaguely reminded of himself, reminded of his brother Federico, and it leaves a bittersweet taste on the corner of his mind. "Unfortunately, Martucci is right," Ezio says reluctantly to Vittorio, and it makes the young novice frown. Glancing up, Ezio nods at the others and waves his hand. "Go ahead. I will meet you there."

"Don't let his baby face coerce you into anything, _Mentore_ ," Rocco says over his shoulder as the Assassins hesitantly file out of the door. It earns him a slap against the shoulders from Severino, and Rocco whines under his breath. "Jesus, don't," he sputters. "My back already hurts."

"Maybe if you didn't spend so much time on it," and the following retort is lost as their bickering voices and chuckles vanish down the hallway.

Ezio finally turns back to Vittorio with a shake of his hooded head. He isn't sure what he's going to do with them all. "You are eager to learn," he says, and he's glad for that. "That's good. However, you are still young, still have a lot of training to do."

"I won't learn if I'm never given the chance," Vittorio says solemnly.

"You will have a long life with plenty of chances," reassures Ezio. "We need you here, more than anything." The corner of Ezio's lips turn up just a little. "You may think it is nothing, it is useless, but it is everything. I use to think the same thing when I was your age." Ezio raises his hand to toward the room, but the motion is further than that: Tiber. He's not entirely sure where they would all be without the help of a few novices. Where they would be without the help of La Volpe, Machiavelli, or Bartolomeo, all of who weren't even traditional Assassins. "You are the base of the pyramid that keeps it standing, the support that keeps the rest of us held strong. This is our home, the Assassins' home, and you help keep it running smoothly. I would not be at the top without you, without your help. No one else can do what you do for us. They will help you along the way, this I promise."

"I just...." Vittorio sighs exasperatedly. "All right," he says.

"Go help Marco," Ezio urges. "I will get Enu to teach you the crossbow when you are ready. Ah." Ezio slowly crosses his arms and raises a brow. "How is our little aviary?"

Vittorio smiles childishly. "Well."

" _Bene_." Ezio backs up toward the door and makes a shift with his arm to allow the novice to exit first. The sole reason for his haste is God knows how much ruckus is currently ensuing with the bowman group, especially when Rocco is involved.

"Oh, _Mentore_ ," Vittorio suddenly calls from the other end of the hall, and Ezio pauses to glance over his shoulder. "Thank you."

Another smile comes to Ezio's mouth, and he nods his head before disappearing quietly around the corner in a hushed flurry of robes.


	2. Beware of One Who has Nothing to Lose

It's evening, and Ezio is still outside with the other recruits being devoured by the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of the setting sun. Despite years and years of strenuous Assassin routine, he can still feel the creak of old age slinking around his ankles like a quiet cat, but he pushes on anyway. Teaching the younger novices about the crossbow, with Enu's skilled help, is frustrating, to put it simply. Most of them are quick learners, sharp on their feet, ready and willing to do his bidding, but some....

Ciro Cavallari cannot shoot a crossbow to save his life.

Ezio gently kneads his eye sockets with his fingers. It's not even that Ciro can't shoot a crossbow, it's that the boy (who has just moved from _Servitore_ to _Assistente_ ) has the worst temper and mouth. It comes, more often than not, with defeat, and it rises viciously out of the shame like a rabid black dog.

"You can't control this piece of shit!"

Enu, in understanding, gently places a hand on Ezio's shoulder. The other apprentices look away as if they have second-hand embarrassment. The hand is a silent request to offer back-up, Ezio knows, but he shakes his head regardless. It's his charge. He recruits indiscriminately, and he can't put novices' shortcomings off on other novices--not that Enu is a novice.

"Perhaps it's not the bow, but the bowman," Rocco says, arms crossing.

Rocco digging a shallow grave, Ezio knows, is never surprising, especially not with Ciro.

"I'll cut that tongue out of your mouth, Martucci!"

Firmly, Ezio places a hand on Ciro's shoulder and guides the boy back around to face the straw and sand targets. He wonders if the fire burning and raging deep in Ciro's soul comes from the fact he had been orphaned by the Borgia, or if it comes from the fact that one of Ciro's once-broken-now-reset-and-healed legs is shorter than the other. (He hopes the other recruits don't make fun of it, but not all people can get along, and Ciro is so easy to rile up. The boy's slight hobble is one of many insecurities, Ezio's sure.)

"Put the weight in your shoulders, not your forearms," Ezio says, using one hand to raise the crossbow up in Ciro's arms in preparation for firing. With his other hand, Ezio grips Ciro's shoulder, and the boy barks under the squeeze. "Feel it here? It will help you balance the bow. When it recoils, your arms will easily bend at the elbow instead of vibrating. Your shot will be cleaner."

Enu and Rocco exchange glances with raised brows.

"It still won't fucking fire straight," Ciro grumbles, shoulders hunching as if trying to 'put the weight there.'

Maneuvering out of the way, Ezio waves in indication for Ciro to fire. After a moment or two of reluctant pretend planning, of pretend aiming, Ciro pulls the trigger up with a hand, and the bolt leaps off the weapon toward the dummy at the end of the range. It pierces the straw-sand with a heavy _thwap_ \--dead center.

Everyone is frozen in surprise for a long second, and then Rocco whistles long and low appreciatively.

Ezio claps a shocked Ciro gently on the back, jostling the boy, and then he turns to tend to the other novices who are standing around like ivory baby chicks, open mouthed. "Bows ready," he instructs. "Weight in your shoulders. On the count of three, fire. Whoever misses has to clean up after dinner."

There's a simultaneous groan throughout the group.

Later that night, the door opens on Ezio as he's glancing over a map of Rome. When he looks up, it's Ciro, standing in nothing but sleeping pants (because he lives--and sleeps, and eats, and breathes--this place), holding a small lantern. They spend a few quiet seconds looking back and forth at each other, and then Ezio raises a hand to beckon Ciro inside the room.

The door clicks shut, and Ciro says, "I wanted to thank you."

"There is no need for thanks," Ezio replies as Ciro walks over to study the map on the table curiously.

With a clink of noise, Ciro finally places the lantern down on the tabletop. "Is there a need to punch Rocco in the face?" asks Ciro quickly, hopefully.

Ezio laughs, and the noise rumbles in his throat and chest. "Perhaps," he says, and then adds, "Sometimes." His attention returns to the map, but there isn't quite anything to do with the markers placed on it yet. He had been only looking.

"I will get better with the crossbow, _Mentore_ ," Ciro says quietly.

"You are already good with the crossbow," Ezio reminds the boy. "Soon, I will see you picking guards off rooftops with it one-handed," and Ciro scoffs almost before the words are finished being spoken.

"Did you eat a lot of shit to talk that much of it?" Ciro can't help the grin that comes to the corner of his mouth. It falters only when he thinks, at first, his master may be angry with him.

But then Ezio laughs again, and punches Ciro playfully along the jaw. "You serve me better as a strategist than a crossbowman," Ezio says, and then points to the map with a finger. "You can help me now, unless... it is past your bedtime."

Ciro scoffs again, settling down against the table on his forearms. "Show me what you're looking at, old man. I'm ready."

 _Old man_ , Ezio thinks, a little humored. _At this age?_


	3. King and Pawn Go Back in the Same Box

The five of them rise out of the cobble roofs of Rome like alabaster gargoyles, all falling into place a head slower than Ezio, whose form is first to pierce the horizon so far above in the sky. Beatrice and Annetta flank him closely, followed by Tullio and Augusto.

Erected tyranny lies ahead of them in the distance: a Borgia tower, shielded by red and silver guards. Ezio wants a clean entrance for himself, a get-in-and-get-out deal that will waste no time and leave no trace of their presence, no fuss.

Lifting his arm, Ezio whistles softly and rounds his hand through the air. As silent as cats, Tullio and Augusto descend to the next level below the roof, disappearing from sight. Ezio glances at Beatrice and Annetta in turn, and they all exchange nods.

No one ever sees The Eagle and his children liberating Rome, but the pieces always miraculously drop into place. No one ever sees the five white figures moving briskly through the dry Roman air from rooftop to rooftop. They are there, and then they are gone just as quickly. Ivory ghosts who shine into view in the sun only to vanish by starving shadows. It takes them seconds, and the five of them are swarming the Borgia tower as if it's second nature.

Tullio and Augusto sweep the area free of guards. Beatrice and Annetta pick off any guards missed while keeping a sharp eye out for alerted others. Ezio is scaling the tower without hesitation or conflict, without one missed step or hand. He's at the top in minutes, able to see a good deal of Rome even from this perspective. She's a huge, battered city, but she's beautiful. Turmoil and struggle cut aging scars into her face, but her spirit, her soul, it blazes right from the very depths. Ezio has lived the life that he sees below him: people coming, people going, selling, buying, birthing and dying—living. He lived it with his father, with his brothers, with his mother and sister. He lived it, values it, values the choice of deciding who and what and where. He wants to show the novices this, wants them (who he knows has lived, or is living this life, too) to fight for this.

With no reluctance, he's burning the tower before swiftly plunging over the edge into the safety of hay below.

When he rolls out, shrugging straw from his hood and shoulders, Beatrice is racing to meet him. Her footwork, he notices, isn't hurried in precision and determination, but in panic. Tension rolls up his back and it aches the muscles in his shoulder blades.

"It's Augusto," she says, breathless and worried. "It's bad."

Anxiety grips Ezio's chest right around the ribs, and he wastes no time rushing off after Beatrice.

The two of them round several corners, and then grind to a halt on the scene. Tullio and Annetta are relentlessly fighting off guards while Augusto struggles to pull himself from the ground with a bloodied front. People are screaming and scattering, smart enough to run away, yet entirely too eager to linger.

Ezio, in signal to Beatrice, jerks his hand at Augusto, and she obeys the silent command to help without question. Meanwhile, he leaps in to take up the brunt of the defense from Tullio and Annetta, and they both fall back to offer supporting aid. Even without a hidden blade, Ezio is deadly, perhaps even more so with a sword than a short segment of steel beneath the arm. One weapon is quick and clean, the other is brutal blood play, and yet both are equally merciless in the hand of The Mentor.

Still, it is one thing to fear talent with a weapon and another altogether to fear the talent of an experienced fighter. The sword Ezio has out now offers no forgiveness to the attacking figures, picking them off one by one as they take swings, but the fight with his body is a showcase any novice in the ranks gazes upon with envy and awe. A single kick from Ezio's boot breaks a knee or a leg, a single punch from his gauntlet-covered fist breaks a jaw in two places. There's seconds of agonizing pain, and then nothing but darkness as he cuts them down with a sharp tongue of steel.

For now, Ezio can feel the hush of peace spread over the area, and he ignores the whispers and stares of a crowd in favor of turning back to Augusto and the others. The man is too pale, too grey and yellow at the edges, and Ezio can feel his stomach tighten.

"Fornari," Ezio says, but Augusto interrupts with, "I'm fine."

The man is not fine, Ezio knows. There is too much blood, the color of their sashes, covering the ground and Beatrice's hands, too much unspoken acceptance and sorrow. Hurriedly, Ezio bends and scoops Augusto into his arms, and it's disheartening how easily the man falls into the crook of his embrace.

"Let's go," he barks, already ahead of the other three on their trek back to Tiber. "Stay with me, Fornari," he says down at the Augusto's sallow face. "Don't close your eyes."

"Tch. Fornaris don't… give up so easily...." Augusto says, smiling weakly.

They are more than half-way there ( _Almost there_ , he thinks, _almost_.), when Beatrice and Annetta force his stubborn stride to stop by grabbing his shoulders. He turns to face them, nearly angry, irritated by their lack of fortitude. Their looks are miserable and heartbreaking.

" _Mentore_ ," Tullio says softly between the quiet stress, "he's gone."

As if realizing it for the first time, Ezio snaps his gaze down to the man in his arms. Augusto's face is paler than before, sockets dark, lips blue, and expression slack. "No," he whispers, curling the form closer like the movement might wake the man from a deep sleep. "Fornari...."

"What are we going to tell Fabiola?" Beatrice asks.

After a thoughtful moment, Ezio says, "That he died valiantly. That he died releasing Rome from the clutches of the Borgia. That he didn't give up even at the very end." Ezio pauses, and then adds, "That we'll all bury him properly."

Timidly, Annetta reaches out to place a gentle hand over Augusto's closed eyes, and then she looks up at Ezio expectantly, hopefully. Tullio and Beatrice both turn similar eyes at him.

Ezio gazes back at Annetta a moment, only lifting his eyes in order to exchange looks with a solemn Beatrice and Tullio. He looks back down finally, frowns deeply. Losing an apprentice is like losing a limb, losing a part of himself. They are as human as he is, as man as his brother, as woman as his sister. They are precious pieces of his bloodless family, a family of ideals and principles bound together under one Creed. He can feel his heart wrenching painfully inside of his chest, or maybe that is the sensation of a part of his soul being torn and shredded.

" _Requiescat in pace_ ," he whispers.


	4. Big Mouthfuls Often Choke

Ezio still doesn't get it.

Everyone in the Order seems to have such a close camaraderie that he just doesn't understand what the whispered rumors mean. Of course Ottavio would love Raffaele. They are brothers, no? They fight alongside one another in battle, they spend days training together, and they breathe practically the same air of ideals. He loves many himself! Leonardo, Gilberto, Bartolomeo, many of the novices....

And so Ezio continues to be baffled and confuddled by the strange inquires the younger novices give him: "Have you seen Ottavio and Raffaele together lately, _Mentore_?" or the odd, giggling titter of the girl novices: "Ottavio was napping with Raffaele again...."

What is wrong with sleeping together? he wants to know. There have been plenty of occurrences where he has spent the night with Leonardo, too fatigued to make it anywhere else. He had even slept in the same bed as Leonardo without as much as a protest! He doesn't understand the inflection in the novices' tones when they talk about Ottavio and Raffaele, as if there is some kind of secret there, as if there is some kind of magic which would be broken by mere utterance. It frustrates him to no end.

So quietly, he swings around in the front room to find Filippo and Vittorio in the midst of what appears to be some kind of bizarre African tribal dance. Fillippo has two short knives, and he is banging their flat edges rhythmically against the surface of the table. Vittorio is gyrating off to the side, a bad attempt at physically mimicking the beat. They appear to be having fun regardless, until Filippo notices Ezio's presence first, and then they both freeze after turning to look.

Ezio crosses his arms.

Naturally, Vittorio is quick to blush. Filippo, on the other hand, gives a short "Yo!" as if to down-play the fact they had been previously acting foolish. There's an awkward silence.

"Care to explain yourselves?" Ezio finally asks, a smile in his voice.

Filippo and Vittorio briefly exchange glances like they are trying to shove together some good excuse between the two of them. A real good excuse, Ezio thinks, as hard as their stares seem to be. Again, they look back to him.

"Practicing," Filippo says, and then Vittorio nods enthusiastically for effect.

"Practicing," Ezio repeats. He is sure that beating knives like a heathen and wiggling like a burning snake isn't high on the list of what to practice. If anything, it is just two more things he feels he has to teach them. Music and dancing. Wonderful.

"I am… working my arms!" says Filippo good-naturedly. "And Vittorio is"—he cuts a short glance at the other novice—"well, he is working everything else."

"So I see," Ezio says, uncrossing his arms at long last. He supposes the reprimand and critique for their festivities and merrymaking can wait. The mysterious aura surrounding two other novices is his top priority. "Do you two know where Ottavio or Raffaele are?"

"On their _luna di mi_ \--" starts Filippo, but Vittorio quickly slaps a gloved hand over that mouth with a nervous chuckle.

Ezio raises an eyebrow.

"They, ah, took a mission in France, _Mentore_ ," clarifies Vittorio. "They should be back soon. Should I send a letter?"

"No," says Ezio, and he shakes his head. "There seems to be many rumors concerning them. I was hoping to ask them myself...." The knowing look that Vittorio and Filippo trade because of his words only makes him more confused. As brilliant as he knows he is as an Assassin, he doesn't get how this can be such an enigma. "What?" he finally says, trying to urge either of the novices into speaking.

A small frown finds Vittorio's lips, and he asks, "Are you… going to discharge them?"

Dischar— What? A peculiar expression finds Ezio's face, and his brows pinch just a little. "Why would I discharge them?" he asks. "Have they done something worth a discharging?"

Filippo gives Vittorio a kick to the back of the thigh, and the youngest boy instantly looks regretful. Ezio gets the distinct I've-spoken-too-much-already impression, and he crosses his arms back over his chest once more.

"Are you two going to tell me what exactly is going on?"

There's a weird, short laugh from Filippo. "You really don't know?"

When neither Vittorio nor Filippo receive an answer, they assume the point Ezio is trying to make. What is there to know? Had Ottavio and Raffaele betrayed the Order? Had they skipped out on certain work? Did they fail a mission? Retreat?

"They...." starts Vittorio timidly. "Ottavio and Raffaele.... Well, they… love each other...."

Ezio stares, and the two novices think, at first, that the man is exceedingly upset. It's not that the apprentices see much of Ezio's anger (if any at all), but their creative imaginations, mixed with Ezio's assassinating skills, give way to wild rumors which somehow manage to color the man as a raging beast to be feared. Even now, it's obvious Vittorio and Filippo are both sweating and nervous. Doing so much as whispering this kind of information out in the open is dangerous. None of the novices knew how their mentor would react.

Some minutes of silence pass, and Ezio finally says, "I knew that already."

In relief, Vittorio wilts down into the nearest chair, and Filippo half-cracks a smile. This perplexes Ezio again, who doesn't understand why the tension appeared in the first place. Why had they looked as if he would skin them alive? They only told him what he already knew: Ottavio and Raffaele love each other. It hadn't been a lie. He has seen them before, has seen their bond. (What he doesn't get, of course, is the extent of this bond, or how lightly he has interpreted it.)

"Ha ha, we thought you...." begins Filippo, only to have his voice trail off quickly. He gives Vittorio a funny look of realization.

All Vittorio can do is bite his own lip.

Their mentor is so transparent. The two novices can already tell Ezio still doesn't get what they mean by the word love. Ezio, their poor teacher, just can't comprehend the implications that come with flinging the word love around between two adult men even during the Renaissance.

"They're really close!" chirps Vittorio swiftly in order to fill the silence. "They're just fond of each other!"

For now, this seems to appease Ezio, and he nods his head in agreement. "All right," he says. "I was only curious...."

Filippo and Vittorio simultaneously give a stupid grin, all teeth. It looks suspicious, but Ezio believes he's too tired to fall into a round of pointless questioning, or back-and-forths. He has received what he came for: the answer to his inquiry about Ottavio and Raffaele. He will find out one day what all of this is really about, but for now, he will settle for the They're really close! and the They're just fond of each other!

Satisfied for now, Ezio twists around to exit; however, he stops just short of the hallway to look back. "Oh," he says to the two younger men, lips curling upward, "you may want to practice your song and dance."

It's Vittorio and Filippo's turn to stare.


	5. He Who Perseveres Wins at Last

Stefano screams, and the noise is swallowed up instantaneously by the wind rushing around his head.

There are four of them swaggering unsteadily on top of the 'chariot': Stefano, Carlotta, Vittorio, and Cristiano. (There had to be four of them, or the mission would have—and may still be—a failure.) What had started as a burn-the-plans-and-steal-the-Templar-goods mission has since turned into a catch-bugs-in-your-screaming-mouth-and-try-to-hang-on escape. It's Vittorio's first real mission and Stefano's second, leaving Carlotta and Cristiano as the only two Master Assassins who can keep their heads on straight.

To say the least, Stefano is still screeching like a woman being thrown off a building, clutching the front edge of the chariot and ducking low behind its shield of wood; meanwhile, Vittorio is learning the behaviors and methods of glue and adhering himself to the side of the machine gun welded in the bed of the out-of-control vehicle. Both of them are paler than the rear end of a sheared sheep.

"Bastardi!" Carlotta hisses over the rumble of their chaotic journey down the dirt road. "Do they multiply?"

"I don't know," heaves Cristiano in response, gripping the reigns of the horses until his knuckles turn red and blue and veins break out under the flesh on his neck.

All at once, Stefano shrieks, "We're going to die!" over all the noise, over the yell of aggressive Italian right on their heels.

Undaunted, Carlotta scoffs, and when she turns, she cuffs Stefano upside the head as best she can while still keeping her balance. "We will if you continue to whimper half on the ground like a scared little girl!" And she shoots a gust of air up toward her forehead to blow her blonde hair from her eyes. "Vi, get up!" she bellows, grabbing the opposite side of the machine gun in order to flip it to the ready. "Help me shoot these _stronzi_ to Hell!"

In the face of trepidation, Vittorio is timid only because he has the crippling idea he will be unsuccessful. Many times before, he has lowered himself to his knees in front of Failure and bowed his head. He is a terrible long-range shot, he frequently fumbles over his own footing when ascending scaffolding and leaping from roof to roof, and he certainly has infant-like coordination when it comes to swinging a sword. However, what Vittorio lacks in skill he makes up for in determination and fortitude, in the murmur of optimism, in the fact that, despite all these stinking Templar, he is an Assassino drawing Rome out of the clutches of greedy aristocracy and hypocritical religious leaders.

A far cry from the moaning Stefano currently huddled in the corner of the chariot, but Vittorio is certain that the other boy has these qualities, too, somewhere in the depths of his soul.

With renewed gusto, Vittorio falls heavily into the side of the machine gun and helps Carlotta heft it up and point it back and forth between the Templar cavalry who are flanking the wild chariot. Two or three of the silver and red men go down, taking horse along with them here and there. The soldiers shout at the four of them, filthy Italian insults twisted with frustration and rage. Down from the neighboring hills, four more horsemen charge with unforgiving urgency.

"Stefano, get up!" yells Cristiano, still trying his damnest to keep dominion over the horses and their reigns. "We need your fucking help!"

At first, Stefano doesn't even budge, much like he's a barnacle lodged on the inside of the chariot's wood for the rest of eternity. He has his eyes squeezed shut, and he's bumping along with the motions, bumping along as if he has been tossed into a mug and shaken vigorously.

A loud thump sounds over the noise of the machine gun, over the noise of the wheels turning over the hard dirt. A Borgia soldier has leveled the edge of the chariot and is threatening to lay siege to their escape. Vittorio struggles to keep the machine gun stable and firing as Carlotta swings effortlessly into defensive action, hidden blade extended. Cristiano is yelling. Carlotta is yelling. Vittorio is yelling.

Suddenly, all at once, Stefano snaps his eyes open and springs to his feet. He yowls like a feral cat, draws his sword from his waist in one fluid motion. The soldier looks completely stunned as he ragdolls away from the chariot and into the distance, blood sprinkling the ground in his wake. The entire chariot is reduced to equally stunned silence; Vittorio, Carlotta, and Cristiano each exchange a look before grins of satisfaction break out on their faces.

"Yeah!" Carlotta screams over the commotion, pumping a fist. And then she gives Stefano a congratulatory whack against the shoulder. "Get your ass on the gun!" she says, already turning to do the same.

From the front, Cristiano yells over his shoulder, "Look, there in the distance! _Mentore!_ "

Ahead of them, coming around the jut of hill, is Ezio Auditore on horseback, tailed closely by someone else. Both look unwavering and prepared, and Cristiano screams a name over his shoulder, but it's lost in the wind's embrace. He is too busy to repeat himself.

"Screw _Mentore!_ " Vittorio quickly snaps back, pointing with a hand in front of them. "Bridge!"

"Shit!"

Carlotta grabs both Stefano and Vittorio by the nape of the neck, fingers clenched into their uniforms in a death grip. She slams the three of them together just in time for the horses and wheels to hit the flimsy wood of the bridge. The animals frantically race to get across, causing a turmoil of waves and shakes to rock the chariot, and the planks of the bridge easily give out just behind the lot of them. Stefano is screaming again, and Cristiano gives up his hold on the reigns in order to clamp himself around the trio tumbling down toward the floor of the chariot.

"Master is off his horse," Cristiano cries loudly. "On the count of three, we jump where he is standing! Remember to roll!"

The four of them crane their necks around to try to see where their master stands, along with another apprentice, just in the grass at the edge of the road. Ezio looks as if he is more than willing to leap out in an instant and grab the crazed horses, but time slips away in the blink of an eye, and the four Assassins stand up readily at the back edge of the chariot. They notice the other man taking up Ezio's side, recognize him in the instant before jumping—

"Geronimo!" shrieks Carlotta in greeting at the waiting apprentice, and all at once, the four of them on the chariot spring in a dive toward the grass.

The Novice Quartet effectively land right on top of a petrified Ezio, a master with hands up and head shaking for a _No! No!_ , and they even knock poor Geronimo to the ground when they spin and tumble. The chariot whizzes on by, leaving them in a choking dust, until the horses come to a fence that can't be jumped with cargo. There's more than an echo of clatter with the stop.

" _Cazzo!_ " coughs Ezio, attempting to orient himself enough to get up, just in case there are straggling Borgia. Carlotta is already there to lend him a hand, and he gladly takes it. "Since when did training say to pounce your mentor?"

A laugh erupts from a choking Cristiano, and he, Vittorio, and Geronimo pull themselves from the ground into a stand, dusting themselves off by slapping the dirty white robes. Stefano is the only one still sprawled on the ground, groaning pitifully.

"Oh, God," he whines, "my back!" He pauses to hiss. "I told you!" he says with a scowl. "I told you that entire thing was a bad idea!"

Ezio claps Stefano on the arm and hauls the boy reluctantly to his feet, and Stefano continues to play up the ending event by limping and hunching. A whimper here, a mutter there, a dramatic and exaggerated "Oh, oh, oh!"

"Maybe it finally dropped your balls," Carlotta says, wiggling her cupped fingers, and Vittorio and Geronimo share a grin while Stefano's scowl deepens.

It's later, under the expectant and watchful eye of a group of listening novices, when Ezio recounts (after dinner when bellies are full) the tale told to him, and then the Stefano-rode-the-entire-way-back-on-a-horse ending. It makes for a good bedtime story, and an even better blackmailing story for when Stefano takes the plunge from the viewpoint on the top of Tiber. The apprentices slap their thighs and clap their hands with laughter, and later, they quietly tease Stefano about his princess ride back to the hideout.

Of course, they also commend him on his 'successful kill streak,' no thanks to a certain Grand Master.


End file.
